


The Hero’s Rose

by TheCokeworthSnapes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Budding Love, Eventual Romance, F/F, Other, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 13:57:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18757816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCokeworthSnapes/pseuds/TheCokeworthSnapes
Summary: Hermione worked hard to make a name for herself. And all that time she yearned for someone who could breathe it, with life, with reverence.





	The Hero’s Rose

Her name never fit in the mouths of leading men.

No one she’d ever loved had sighed it into her ears while folding her into a smoldering embrace. She wanted it whispered as her lips were kissed under the eye of the glowing moon. She wanted to open a book of poems and find herself decorating the pages.

But it took battles and cleverness to make men say her whole name. It was a curse from those who did, those rambling villainous type that figured a Muggleborn worth mentioning was worth doing so in full. It was name on medals and Ministry badges and theses, never poetry.

It was its only fault, the one nick in the mirror. She cut her hand open every time tried to lift it to catch a beam of light shining off of a beautiful curve in her face. Instead she saw the brightness in her flicker, the little lick of candlelight at an empty table wobble in the draft of disregard.

“Granger!”

“Miss Granger!”

“Mudblood.”

She loved her name on its own, “Hermione Jean Granger,” like the name of a plucky novel heroine. Like Anne of Green Gables—wild haired and opinionated and running through cattails with her skirts in her blushing fist.

She thanked her parents for it all through her childhood, even in her teenage years, even on the morning she erased it from their minds. It was their gift to her, a love charm, her entrant into new and exciting romance.

She wrote it on her bookmarks, like a sweet thing waiting to be discovered. Tucked into the pages of the book ever since she was five: “Property of Hermione J. Granger.”

Anyone who saw it would surely fall in love.

Hermione liked to think a name that charming made room in people’s hearts for her. She’d have space to get comfortable, unbind, find the right words, catch the perfect rhythm and beat with them.

She introduced herself in full, staunchly and unabashed, like the final “er” was magic and once said, she’d be asked to stay. Sometimes it worked, although most times it didn’t.

“Her-mi-o-me,” she’d sound out. “Hermione Granger, nice to meet you.”

But she mostly heard it mispronounced, or recited perfectly in exasperation. That was fine, it took others time to be impressed; so she’d plop down her books and keep talking until the magic set in.

It was a bit long, yes, but eventually it grew on others. Maybe not immediately, maybe it was too ungainly for eleven-year-old boys, maybe if the man who managed was Bulgarian and couldn’t manage the turns. She’d survive.

It would keep, it was a good name. She built on it, polished it, dressed in great grades and valor. She stuck to it, she waited.

She kept writing her name on her bookmarks. She insisted that libraries made good dates. Hermione lamented her lack of artistic flair when she couldn’t write her own sonnets, odes to a rose less sweet.

And then she put her head down and worked, or lifted her chin and sparkled, and she waited and she waited for the right man to speak her into divinity.

It was the summer before her twenty-third birthday when she walked into work, nose buried in a case file. Hermione nudged her chair out with her foot and dropped into it, muttering. Her shoulders cracked when she planted her elbows on her desk, waking her from her trance.

“Damn,” she winced, lowering the folder to massage her neck. Only then did the Auror finally see the body wrapped in periwinkle perched prettily in the chair across from her. “Luna!”

Her friend blinked fluffy, fair lashes at her, radishes hanging from her ears. These were a new pair, each earring pinned to a lobe from a tiny, leafy green stem. The straw-haired witch had truly improved her craft.

How long had it been, months? Hermione and Ron had split, and what, Neville had left England for Brazil? She had thought Luna would follow him, but heard from Ginny that she’d stayed to make write a book.

Silly, Hermione had thought, to leave adventure and perfectly serviceable relationship on account of a book. Even she wasn’t so studious. But then, she had refused marriage for a name, so.

Who had more right to call the other foolish?

“What’re you doing here? Not that it’s not good to see you,” she asked, baffled. “Has something happened? Ginny’s not here, although you could probably guess.”

Luna smiled, tucking a wavy blonde lock behind an ear, presenting her best radish. The paint on it transitioned wonderfully from white to magenta. The varnish looked slick.

She felt ridiculous admiring an earring, but her mind reached for anything to make sense of in the sudden visit. And if anything, Luna Lovegood was a bounty in pleasant details. She had perfected bottle cap necklaces, where each cap bent like it was freshly pried from a bottle lip, swinging from chains instead of string.

The look wasn’t much but the sound tinkled nicely on her tired mind.

She felt wide eyes alight on her and her cheeks stung as she thought on how she must look: dry, bushy hair yanked back into a bun; robes stained with custard from her morning danish, which she now subtly spelled away; somewhere on her person there was a quill stuck and forgotten.

But then, Luna didn’t seem to mind. In the years since the Final Battle, it became Hermione’s second favorite trait of hers.

Firstly, that the funny witch was shorter than her, which made Hermione feel powerful. And secondly, that Luna never judged others, for appearances at least.

Hermione didn’t realize they had lapsed into shared silence without Luna saying a thing. They only smiled kindly at each other in her office, the whoosh of memos and ticking typewriters sounding all around. The slam of a file drawer brought the Auror to present.

“What—ahem—what was it, I’m sorry.”

Luna laughed, delighted. “Oh, I was right! I did so miss you. I thought I’d visit, actually, since it’s been so long.”

“Hm? Okay?” Hermione looked down at the hand that reached out and touched warmly on hers.

Every nail was painted a different color, except one thumb and the opposite pinky, which were both glittery gold and made absolutely no sense.

She fixated on that for just a second, face flushing a little more when Luna wiggled her fingers so the polish caught the light. She felt like a cat and laid one hand over the warm, dancing one, confused and a little dazzled.

“Thank you for, um, visiting. Would you, oh it’s a little early now that I think on it—.”

“I’d love to go to lunch,” Luna answered, tilting her head. “I’ve brought some work with me, so I don’t mind waiting.”

“ _You_ came prepared,” she quipped, gesturing that the witch make herself comfortable. “Yes, if waiting isn’t an issue, lunch at noon sounds lovely.”

She ducked down, intent on returning to her case. After some minutes, she ended up watching Luna through her lashes. Her friend reached into a patched and painted bag and pulled out a fistful of pens, three different notebooks, and a metronome, which she set to counting three-fourths time with a confident, “Hmph.”

Within a half hour, Hermione had settled into scribbling blindly while she snooped, craning to read Luna’s upside down script. The witch huffed and lifted her notebooks, “Stop it.”

“What’re you writing?”

“I’ll tell you at lunch, if you’re still interested.” A finger pointed at her open file. “Don’t let me distract you.”

“But—.” She was shushed, that finger pressing into her lips. Luna had painted this one a matte chocolate brown. Hermione went cross eyed.

“Hermione Jean Granger! Behave!”

The typewriters kept ticking away. Hermione shivered, her heart exploding.  



End file.
